


See The Sky About To Rain

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: Brief snapshots over the years.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	See The Sky About To Rain

**1958**

The sky is lavender and they are working on a song. The golf course allows them a few hiding spots, not that they could be outrun by any objectors, but it’s nice to sit somewhere secluded and be together without interruptions. It can be alright when there are others around, and he likes having girls sitting off to the corner while the band rehearses, but there really isn’t anything better than this. The air is cool and breezy, the early morning granting them relative quiet. Paul didn’t slick his hair today so it sits softer around his face and John finds that he likes it that way too. Paul can get a bit fussy over his looks, peering into shop windows to glimpse at his reflection and comb back the hair sticking out of place and pop up his collar. There is something endearing about it, watching him preen like a bird. He had said as much to Paul, who got a bit flustered and stroppy about being compared to a girl, though John hadn’t meant it like that. It’s one of those many daft things that John prefers to hide away. Things like Oscar Wilde books under his bed, the occasional sappy Alma Cogan song and admiring how his best mate looks as he figures out chord progressions, pale fingers splayed across frets. He can’t show those things to anyone, those impossible chips in his armour. Achilles’ weakness only stopped at his heel, and John thinks he’s an idiot for not covering it up like the rest of them. Still, Paul doesn’t mind those silly little things, the camp musicals and poetry books the hue of Elvis’ eyes. 

Julia had patted Paul’s hair yesterday, a little gesture of affection that made John’s stomach swoop. It was slight envy, that his mother could look to others and adopt them as her own - everyone but him - and something else. A strange fluttering of curiosity, thinking about his own fingers gently raking through the dark hair in a casual slow sweep. Nothing like ruffling it all out of shape just to tease him (he has done that many times now), but just to touch him. You don’t show mates love like that, not like girls do with each other. Girls hug and peck each other on the cheek, they curl up in corners of the room and giggle together and whisper with hands cupped around their ear. That sort of physical ease that would almost make sense for him and Paul to have, given how great Paul is. How glad he is that they had met. 

Paul hadn’t been fazed by the touch, but it would be different if John had done it. So he forgets it, pushes it aside and moves on. Occasionally he trips over these soft thoughts, idle instincts to reach out and touch or to say something sappy. He keeps the seams sewn tight and lets his mind marvel in silence. 

**1960**

The sky is grey and they are working on a song. It’s a slow, languid back and forth that Paul is more invested in than anyone else, plucking at Stuart’s out of tune bass guitar and as they sit in their room. John’s fingers are calloused and would split open if he were to even try to strum a single chord, so he lounges back and nods along to the unexpected musicality coming from Paul’s tuning and the fragments of lyrics they both sprout in turn. His eyes are heavy, stomach aching and twisting up for reasons he can’t just blame on the perpetual hunger. It’s everything, the hours, the lack of sleep, the pills, the alcohol flooding his system at any given time, the girls that suck the life out of him in exchanges that leave him feeling empty. It’s Hamburg, a dreary winter that has them all bitter. Paul hides it of course, mostly. He takes the frustration and tucks it under a mask. You can see it through the eyes, though. The darkness that clings in permanent shadows under doe eyes. But now, he seems content. Raggedy and strung out but genuinely happy in this pocket of time. 

The small window they now possess at the Top Ten sits too high up, so when he looks up to it he can only peek at a small portion of grey light. He doesn’t know what the time is. He gave up caring about those details weeks ago. 

“Getting sick of Pete just fucking off when he wants to,” John comments, tugging at the zip of his jacket. It’s his pathetic way of easing Paul’s frustration with Stuart, redirecting in a way that the younger lad usually has to do for him. He can’t stand it, that tension simmering between the two of them, running white hot in bitter glances and cutting remarks. He can’t work it out, why it matters so much to Paul when Stuart fumbles. Why he unleashes all his cruelty onto him, like lightning to a rod. Why he won’t just listen to him and put up with it. Why Paul’s eyes on the two of them makes his stomach curl, like he’s guilty of something. He can’t pinpoint what it is, if it has anything to do with the bars he sometimes goes to, the people he will talk with late into the night. 

He keeps hearing about all these bent writers, the authors of books stored in his and Stuart’s flat in Liverpool. It has him thinking in flashes quick enough skip over, but they still spring up. Nothing stays coiled up forever. 

“It was good though, getting to play with Ringo,” Paul half smiles, thumb flicking a string to inspect its sound. 

“He’s not ours to keep,” John shifts on the bed, he can never get comfortable on these damn things, “And that’s half the point. Pete doesn’t give a shit.”

Paul’s lips purse as he twists the tuning peg tighter and says nothing. John wants to test him, challenge him, draw the venom out of the wound - but all the same he wants that wound to remain silent and still, out of sight. Out of his sight, at the very least. He swallows, feeling a little ill, and rolls over onto his back. He doesn’t know where Stuart went, he bites down the urge to ask if Paul knows. 

**1962**

The sky is navy and they are working on a song. This place has such clear skies, John’s lungs feel full and bright. They’re sitting adjacent to each other on a hotel bed, a notepad between them, trying to work out how many words they can squash together and still seem natural. 

“It doesn’t work, y’see?” Paul laughs and demonstrates, holding up a mock guitar and humming the melody and the suggested words.

John reaches out, grabs the invisible instrument and yanks it out of his hands to hold himself, “Ok then, how about this way?”

He plays it furiously, mock-screaming like Little Richard with his mouth hanging open and his eyes shut tight, shaking his head.

Paul laughs, “If we meet Little Richard again you’ll have to show him that.”

“You’re better at it,” John mutters, pretending to throw the guitar up in the air and catch it, to Paul’s amusement. 

“I think he really dug what we were doing,” Paul replies, scooping up the notepad and pen to write something down, “Seemed pretty pleased.”

“Yeah, ‘specially with Rings,” he recounts, with mild unease and a half smirk, the gleam in their idol’s eye as he spoke quietly to Ringo backstage that had unsettled them. Paul had been following the rock star like a puppy at his heels and chatting excitedly all the while Little Richard had his eye fixed on their drummer. Mike had laughed and snarkily exclaimed,  _ “He fancies Ringo! What a blow to Paul’s ego!” _ and Paul had simply jabbed him in the ribs and brushed aside his comments as they piled back into the van before the freezing air turned them blue. 

“Come off it,” Paul scoffed, scribbling a note down, “Rich took it well, though, considering.”

“What would you have done?” John asks, the intention to tease and torment colouring his tone but really, deep down, he’s curious. 

Paul doesn’t indulge, “Fuck off.”

There’s humour in his voice, and John latches onto it, refusing to let go, “What if he made sure we went to number one, hm? What then?”

“I don’t get on my knees for anyone,” Paul grumbles, not looking at John. He doesn’t seem angry, but John suddenly feels uncomfortably warm. His mind casts back to their hitch hiking trip to Paris, the clumsy drunkenness as they stumbled along the cobblestone streets with bowler hats tipped over their heads, giggling like children. The tenderness aching in his fingertips as they reached out to hook under Paul’s shirt and tug him closer, eyes fixed on his mouth.  _ We look like lovers _ . They kissed, a brief chaste peck like they had seen people do in cafes and bars.  _ It’s very European _ . They laughed in absolute hysterics, fingertips to their lips to inspect the lingering pressure in the afterglow of the contact. The glittery look Paul gave him, the two of them a little breathless about it all. He can’t forget it, that trust and affection and the shivering of his heart. They never spoke about it, but John knows that Paul remembers. He has to. He wonders if he’s thinking about it now. 

He glances out the window, the night sky is dark and vibrant all the same, glittering stars dotted over like freckles over Paul’s cheeks. It reminds him of the sky in Paris at night.

“I don’t think that one’s gonna work,” John eventually says, gesturing to the notepad, “Just scrap it.”

Paul frowns for a moment, blinking slow in contemplation, mind whirling a million miles a minute, “Hm, yeah, maybe. We could try tomorrow if we get the time. Should get a proper kip, though.”

John’s bed sits against the opposite wall, but the distance still seems too much, too deep. He gives in, shuffling over onto his single bed, listening to Paul hum.

“Walk on out unto the sky…” he sings softly, pulling the limp curtain across the window.

“I don't care if I spend my dough,” John supplies, a smile growing broad and bright.

“Cause tonight I'm gonna be one happy soul!” they sing together.

“I’m gonna rock it up! I’m gonna rip it up!” John throws his pillow at Paul’s head, and they both laugh. The clock strikes twelve and they’re jumping about in their room like teenagers, pretending to be Little Richard.

**1964**

The sky is a bright soft blue and they are working on a song. Sort of. They are on a boat, bobbing on the sparkling water in Miami, the excitement of America still buzzing in the air around them. There are cameras clicking somewhere in the distance, snapping up their pictures for the papers and magazines that are already bursting with mundane stories about them. They marvel at how they are described, at how this chaos is reported on. It still doesn’t make any sense, the four of them pressing their faces up to windows and looking out to enormous crowds screaming their names and finding themselves too overwhelmed to find logic in it. Their music isn’t about logic, though. It’s about  _ feeling _ . It’s the warmth of their harmonies, the electricity in their guitar playing. It’s lyrics pieced together as they play eyeball to eyeball. 

Brian is sitting on the pier, newspaper in his lap and peering through the articles and occasionally making a comment to Ringo, who is busying himself with drying off the cash that had accidentally gotten splashed on. The soggy bills lay out on the sun soaked boards by their sandals. George is busying himself with a fishing rod, occasionally dipping into their conversation. John, Cynthia and Paul sit in the boat on the cushions and chat. It’s indescribable, the cloud they are floating on. He catches himself grinning for no reason, even at his most claustrophobic and restless and nervous - he’s reaching the stars now. 

They’re all in swim shorts, letting the sun warm their skin and Christ, even Brian has managed to keep from staring, but John finds his eyes wandering back to admire Paul’s figure absorbing the sunshine. It doesn’t rustle up the exact feeling he has when Cyn strips off to her swimsuit, but it’s similar enough to make him flush and gnaw on his lip anxiously. It makes him nervous that he’s constantly making the comparison in the first place. 

Cynthia’s hand slips over his knee, “Well, I think they’ve caught onto us by now, but I won’t disobey Brian. I’ll wear a Beatle wig, if I must.”

“Might as well,” John scoffs, “Better be quick, saw some reporter in the paper talking about how we plan on growing it to our shoulders.”

Paul chuckles, “Why stop there?”

“Don’t know what all the fuss is about, everyone had their hair like this in Paris,” John braves a look to Paul, who turns away to look out to the water.

“America is just a little late to the party,” Cynthia suggests, “Besides, it's not  _ that  _ long. I think it looks beautiful this way.” 

Her fingers run through his hair and over the back of his neck soothing some of the restlessness and he leans against her, comforted by her presence. He doesn’t know how he would cope with all this with her an ocean away. He looks up and finds Paul looking at him, expression unreadable at first glance, but the feeling he gets from it catches him off guard. He looks back out onto the water, the gentle lapping against the rocks and the wooden structure of the pier. He feels the camera flashes of his heartbeats, cheeks warming under the heat of the Miami sun.

“Eight arms to hold you…” Paul tries again, the song that won’t leave them, and John’s smile returns.

“Eight lips that long to kiss you… and keep you satisfied?” John turns back around and Paul is grinning.

“Already been done.” 

“Those pesky Stones,” John jokes and mocks frustration, kicking up his heel.

“We should just leave it as eight days a week, forget the arms,” Paul decides, stretching out his legs and resting his back against the edge of the boat, squinting up at the sky. John’s eyes run over his body, and fuck, all the softness of his baby fat is truly gone now. He’s long and lean, basking in pure light like he was made from it and John can’t tear his eyes away. Fascination burns, the high spots of his cheeks are pink by the time he gets a hold of himself and turns his attention back to Cynthia. 

“Eight days a week is not enough,” John says quietly, hoping Paul hears him. 

“-not enough to show I care,” he adds, nodding his head, clapping his palms together for a few quick beats. 

“Ain’t got nothing but love for you, eight days a week,” John hums, tapping his foot. Paul nods with bright approval. 

Cynthia pecks him on the cheek, sighing softly, “I haven’t felt this relaxed in years.”

John agrees, tipping his head against hers, eyes trailing up the length of Paul’s legs.

**1966**

The sky is black, or just about, and they are working on a song. 

Yesterday played on the radio, again, on the drive over to the studio. But he’s over it, the bitterness, the embarrassment of the ordeal. He wants to move past it even if the world won’t. They don’t play it at concerts anymore, funnily enough he didn’t have to rope in Brian to persuade Paul, they just dropped it. Still, it remains  _ the song,  _ and John’s confidence spirals down a lonely decline. What he does to his own mind might be worse than what the Americans are doing to their records. They might as well all burn up together, he doesn’t care. 

He’s coming down from an acid trip, a slow drag of his feet scraping against the floor as he makes his way to where the other lads are just setting up. Paul locks eyes with him immediately, a wash of relief over his expression as John shuffles over to his guitar.

“What’ll it be, fellas?” John hums, pulling the strap up and over his head.

“Paperback Writer,” Paul informs him, tapping out a section of a familiar bass-line with rushed fingers. He has that manic look in his eyes, totally absorbed and obsessed with the music. 

“Brian just came in, said that they’ll release that documentary in May, we’ll see that footage of us in the plane,” Ringo comments, cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes are bright, brighter than they have been in a while. This touring is knocking them all around, everyone except Paul. Paul is always the bloody exception. He blinks himself back into some kind of lucidity, trying to remember the harmonies for this track. He doesn’t know if he acknowledged Ringo with more than just a nod of his head. 

“We’ll do it like this, see,” Paul clears his throat with a soft noise, “ _ Paperback writer _ …”

His voice reaches the high note effortlessly and John nods, already wrapping his mind around his own vocals as he walks over to the mic. How is it that one glance over the shared microphone can always brighten him? One knowing look between them and the sun rises, breaking through the bleakness of dark clouds sitting heavy over his eyes. 

Their voices rise together, effortless in a way that makes his chest ache with adoration and intimacy. John doesn’t shy away, keeps his eyes right on Paul, and Paul doesn’t look away either. 

“Hang on, hang on,” John stops them, “We’ll sing  _ Frère Jacques  _ like that. You know, going against it?”

“Counter melody,” Paul nods, “But we’ll keep it sort of underneath, yeah? We can neaten it up but it’ll be hearing both at the same time.”

“Counter culture,” John hums with a smirk, “You’re the expert aren’t ye, Paul?”

Paul looks him up and down, a quick sweep of his eyes that John doesn’t miss because he’d never allow himself to miss any morsel of attention he can wring out of Paul. God, he feels stupid for it.

“What was that for?” John inquires, giving an exaggerated look to Paul. His line of vision fixates on the faint scar above Paul’s lip, a jagged zip of anxiety flashing at the thought of Paul being hurt. 

“You’re not here,” Paul says, and it sounds like a biting quip but there’s genuine worry laced in his tone. John runs his hand through his hair, feeling a strange ache in his chest. Guilt churning in his gut. He’s let him down. 

“Where am I?” John challenges, but not harshly. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry. Even if his soul is screaming in agony.  _ You’re not here. You’ve up and left me behind. You don’t need me.  _

“Over the rainbow,” Paul says, mouth curling back easily into a smile. 

“Way up high,” John quirks a brow and Paul laughs.

“Come back to the farm, Dorothy, we’ve got work to do.”

“Are you a friend of hers, eh?” John grins, impish. 

“Quiet now,” Paul laughs behind his hand and tacks on coyly, “I’m a casual acquaintance.”

“All that time with Robert Fraser and all you can give him is  _ acquaintance _ ?” John plucks a string, the note ringing harsh and shrill in his ears.

Paul’s face falls a little, “Wizard of Oz isn’t his thing.”

“I’ll bet,” John mutters, mood souring. 

They both know this is about the acid argument. Paul won’t try it, he’s happy enough on the outskirts of infinitely colourful creative potential - of  _ their  _ potential. What does it say about them? About how Paul sees him? His mind fizzles in bitter powder dissolving on his tongue night after night, efforts to reach Paul only to fall short and sharp on his own sword.

“Hey,” Paul nudges his arm with the neck of his bass. He doesn’t say anything, eyes swimming with something close to desperation, bordering on agony. And within that, is affection. John can’t take much comfort in those looks, but he caves in and nods his head, forcing a weak smile.

“Let’s carry on then, Toto,” John strikes a chord, “That’s a good boy.”

Paul laughs, still smiling to himself as they start recording. It still means that world to John, that he can make Paul smile like that.

**1967**

The sky is bronze and they are working on a song. Champagne pink clouds stretch across in long wisps, the grey underbelly of them making the whole scape seem even more bold and brilliant. The two of them are sitting in one of John’s music rooms, the heavy keys of a piano sitting under Paul’s fingers as he works out a melody to sit under the words they have written during the afternoon. He’s wearing one of John’s shirts, a floral button up with deep violet flowers blossoming from tangled dark green vines. It sags a little over his shoulders, the top few buttons undone to reveal sharp collarbones. John feels a fuzzy burst of light swell at the sound of his voice, filling up the room. He changes key, arched brow and blown out pupils contrasting the milky pale of his skin. His lips are bitten red, and John wants to taste. 

Paul’s attention snaps back to him in an instant, a sly grin making him look like a mischievous schoolboy. John doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge the absence of music. He takes one last puff of his joint and slowly approaches, sliding onto the seat. Paul shuffles over to make room for him, their forearms pressed together as they play together. 

“What happened afterwards?” John asks quietly, because if he doesn’t say anything he’ll burst, and the weed has sufficiently subdued his anxiety about saying the words out loud.

Paul’s fingers still on the keys for a moment, stuttering back to an effortless melody - something old and familiar, “Nothing, really. I went to bed.”

“You don’t want to tell me,” John licks over his lip, half-lidded eyes scanning over their hands, side by side. He can hear Paul’s soft steady breaths. He can feel the warmth of his thigh pressed to his own. 

“I do,” Paul says softly, shifting back to a lower key, “But there aren’t words for it, are there?”

John doesn’t say anything for a long moment, hands falling back into his lap and eyes still fixed on Paul’s slender wrists and how his long fingers find each desired key with ease. He watches and waits, the blurred edges of his nerves sharpening the moment the music stops again. 

“You were everywhere,” Paul’s voice crackles, “You were everything. The Emperor of Eternity.” 

His pulse gallops, braving a subtle turn of his head to watch Paul’s profile, only to find Paul already looking right at him, “What does that mean?”

Paul’s face hardens. The tension is palpable, breaths held in tense throats.

“You have to tell me,” John says, voice trembling.

“You know what it means,” Paul breathes. He smells like smooth weed, sweet smoke and familiarity. Home. The glossiness of his eyes, the thin jagged red lines sprouting from the edges of his eyes, the dark of his lashes framing the contrast of white and red so breathtakingly well. He’s licking his lips, mirroring John. Tight chest, nervous hands. He pushes himself closer, eyes imploring for an answer.

“Do I?” 

Paul’s eyes slip closed, sighing, “Of course you do.”

Clear sunlight in his heart, the frost melts to gold just as Paul leans closer and meets his mouth in a soft experimental kiss. Their lips fold, quivering bodies pressing closer. Soft and tender, quiet wet sounds as they navigate the stickiness of the weed coating their mouths, the blurring and blending of their bodies is the easiest comfort he’s ever known. Last night they had dropped acid together, watching each other’s eyes and mirroring each other’s movements, losing themselves and gaining more of each other. Paul had cupped his face in his hands, eyes raking over him as if he were precious. John had never felt more loved or at ease with anyone or anything in his life. 

He’s falling deeper, the dewy flowers of his soul now glinting in the light.The whirring wonderment leaves him breathless, an unrestrained moan rising up his throat, teeth gently scraping over Paul’s plush lower lip.

“How can I tell you?” Paul whispers into the dip above his chin, “All these things… I can never…” 

“I know,” John propels forward and slides his hands around Paul’s back, “I know.”

“John,” Paul moans, breath hitching as his fingertips rake through his hair.

“Oh, Christ,” John could sob with it - the aching want now snapping up like flames under his skin.

His lashes flutter, face tilted up to the ceiling as John sucks deep kisses over his throat. Frantic fingers running up and down his back, the energy heightens and the starbursts of contact aren’t enough. They need to be together. There’s an old couch pushed up to the opposite wall, and they fall into it together, losing track of themselves as the sky turns a shiny silver - one last burst of burnt orange reaching up from the horizon. 

-

He runs his fingers through Paul’s hair when he blinks awake. The dark haired man is still asleep, face relaxed and features soft, naked body curled up to and over John. His mind races after memories; Paul’s body warm and pliant under his hands, the hot drag of his tongue over John’s cock, the steady rhythm as he rocked his hips against him, the moans that would tumble from his slick mouth just before he ducked down to finish him off, the rosy glow of his face as he came, the shy laughter and comforting caresses. 

His chest feels full of starlight. He has the afterglow radiating from his flushed skin, it weaves through his mind as he relaxes further into the cushions. All those daft love songs that sit under their names - always together - bow down in awe to the infinite love they share. The words Paul whispered still linger on his lips, the ghost of a kiss he wants to taste again and again. He feels him smile against his chest, and he smiles too. 


End file.
